


Pasta, Prayer and PTSD

by GinnyK



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e12 Guns Not Butter, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-31 04:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15111608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinnyK/pseuds/GinnyK
Summary: Post epGuns Not Butter





	Pasta, Prayer and PTSD

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

"Did you really pose for a picture with a goat?" Donna asks from the doorway, startling me out of the fog I was in. 

"Shut up," I mutter as I pull my feet off the window sill and turn my chair around. Donna's standing there with a big grin on her face and a big bag filled with something that smells amazing. 

"Did you steal food, real food?" I ask as I turn on the desk lamp so we're not completely in the dark. 

"Of course not, Guiseppe sent food over." she says as if I know who Guiseppe is. 

I scrunch my face up in the "I have no idea what you're talking about" face. 

"Guiseppe, the chef from the thing today." 

"Oh, the stalking. You made a friend that fast?" 

"I've met him before. In case you didn't notice, I spend a lot of time standing around when you're off pretending to run the country," she smirks as she looks into the bag. "I've talked to him a couple of times before. He always tries to feed me." The sight and smell of the food make me realize I haven't eaten since lunch and it's now after 11:00. 

"Josh, do you think you could stop drooling and grab us something to drink out of the fridge?" 

I grab a couple of beers from the fridge and some paper plates and plastic forks from the shelf. 

"Desk or floor?" I ask as I suddenly realize I've fantasized about asking Donna that question a million times, although the fantasy doesn't usually include food. Although there was that one fantasy about whipped cream and.... 

"Josh....earth to Josh." Donna snaps her fingers in my face to get me to pay attention. 

I can only imagine the look on my face at this moment. Good thing it's dark in here cause I am sure I am bright red. She points to the floor and tries not to laugh to hard. I really hate it when she can read my mind. 

We settle down on the floor in front of my desk. I reach for the remote and click on ESPN. 

"What, no CNN?" asks Donna as she makes a big deal out of feeling my forehead, "You feeling ok?" 

"I'm fine," I say, a little harsher than I had planned. 

Donna backs off silently and starts to open up the bag. She pulls out a loaf of italian bread, a container of salad and two round foil pans. She peels the lids back to reveal Fettuccini Alfredo and Chicken Parmigiana with a side of penne. I think I've died and gone to heaven. 

She dishes up the food, making sure to give me salad. I wisely decide not to protest and I accept the plate with a grateful smile. We eat in silence for a few minutes while I catch up on the hockey highlights on Sports Center. 

"Did you really mean what you said about resigning?" she asks as she turns slightly to face me. 

I reach over my head and pull a file folder off the desk. I had it to her wordlessly and motion for her to open it. She puts down her plate and pulls out the single sheet of paper. She reads it quickly and quietly. She puts it on top of the folder and hands them back to me. I crumble up my resignation and toss it in the garbage. "That's the closest I've ever gotten. Usually I don't even print it out," I admit with a sigh. 

"Oh Josh," she says as she cups my cheek. I lean into her touch and smile weakly. 

"I'm fine." 

"I think you're far from fine, but you're too stubborn to admit it." 

"Well, maybe you should just pray for me or something," I spit out, once again speaking without thinking. 

Donna backs away as fast as if I'd struck her. I put my plate on the floor and lean over with my head in my hands. I can't believe I said that. I'm so close to the proverbial edge that I have to press the heels of my hands against my eyes to stop the tears that suddenly appear. I can hear Donna get up to grab the box of tissues from my computer desk. I wait for her to shove one in my hand. But that doesn't happen, apparently she needed them for herself. It's been a long, long time since I've been this ashamed of myself. I still can't look up; I hear Donna take a few calming breaths and I mentally steel myself against the fury that I so rightly deserve. 

Her hand comes to rest on my back, startling me more than either of us expected. 

And the fury doesn't come. 

"Josh, I admit that the way I phrased things before was a little harsh. I probably could have put it better than I did. But you were sliding towards....towards somewhere dark and I said what I said to draw you out, to get you to react. But I meant what I said. During the hours you were in surgery I prayed more than I've ever prayed, before or since. It's something I wanted you to know," her voice cracks at the end as I hear her reach for another tissue. 

Fury would have been easier to handle. Donna with a mouthful of wise-ass I can handle, emotional Donna, not so much. Especially when I'm the reason she's emotional. I try to take a deep breath but something hitches in my chest. Not to sound too melodramatic but I know the feeling, it's heartache. I've certainly become well acquainted with it over the years for too many reasons to dwell on right now. 

I didn't even realize Donna's was hand is still on my back until she starts to move it downward to rub my lower back. She hits all the right spots along my spine before moving to the always sore spot above my right hip. "Sorry," she whispers as I flinch a little. 

"S'ok," I mutter as I scrub my hands down my face and sit up a little. "I'm sorry...for everything, for snapping at you, for sending you out to stalk today, for scaring you, for...for just being me I guess." 

She pulls me closer and presses a kiss to my temple. "It's ok, don't worry about it. But I have to ask..." 

"I know what you have to ask, did I have a PTSD episode earlier? No, it wasn't an episode. It was me taking an absurd idea to the President in order to save the vote. All so that Leo would be proud of me. Or at least that's the President's version of the whole mess." 

"He's a pretty wise man, Josh. Leo is so proud of you already, you know that." 

I nod. 

"And don't worry about the stalking stuff. I kind of enjoyed it," she says with a little smile. 

"I know you did, that's what worries me. Why don't we finish eating," I suggest as I point to the food that's left. 

"Yeah." 

We go back to our meal and sit quietly for a few minutes until it's my turn to ask a question. "Do you still do it?" 

"Do what?" 

"Pray. For me I mean, I'm pretty sure you pray regularly." 

"What makes you think I pray regularly?" she asks. 

I shrug my shoulders, "It's just a feeling I have, it's not based on any evidence or anything." 

She smiles, "Yes, I do pray every night before I go to sleep. And yes, you're always in my prayers. Although I admit that sometimes I have to pray for the strength to deal with you," she smirks, lightening the mood. 

"I would imagine you do," I whisper as I reach for my beer. I drain it in one swallow and toss the empty bottle into the trash can. The sound echoes loudly in the quiet room. 

"Any more in the fridge?" she asks. 

"Yeah, you letting me have more than one?" I tease as I get up slowly, silently cursing the stiffness that's predictably set in. 

"Well, I think you've had a hell of a day and deserve another beer." 

"You've had a hell of a day too," I call over my shoulder as I pull open the refrigerator door. 

"Yeah," she says sadly. 

I set the bottles on the floor and settle myself back down with my back against the desk and my legs stretched out in front of me. Donna kneels and I see a flash of one of my fantasies as she smiles and reaches to shut the door. She looks at me and rolls her eyes. She pushes my left leg out a little and maneuvers herself so she resting back against my chest. It's usually the other way around, her holding me, but I'm not complaining. 

"Can I ask you something else?" she whispers as she reaches for her beer. 

"Sure," 

"You haven't had an episode recently have you?" 

"You really think I could hide something like that?" 

She shakes her head, her soft blond hair rubbing against my cheek. 

"Only a few panic attacks, none that you don't know about. But I did make an appointment for next week with therapist. It's been a while and I figured a session wouldn't hurt anything." 

"Good," she says as she reaches for the bag the food was in. "Hey, Giuseppe sent dessert." She reaches in the bag and produces a clear container with a large piece of chocolate cake. I retrieve my fork while she opens up the lid. We sit together and eat the cake, sharing the fork. 

Soon the cake is gone and Donna gets up to grab the last two beers out of the fridge. I can't remember the last time I had more than two in one night. 

"Just don't ask me to hold your head when you're puking in the morning." she smirks as she hands me the bottle. I respond by sticking out my tongue at her. 

She kicks off her shoes and reaches to pull mine off too before she settles back down against my chest. She takes my free hand and wraps it around her waist, holding it there with her hand. "What shall we drink to?" she asks as she raises her bottle. 

"No more PTSD episodes," I say, going for the serious. 

"Pasta," she giggles clearly half a beer past serious. 

"The power of prayer," I whisper as I kiss the top of her head. 

"Amen to that," she says as she clinks her bottle against mine. 

THE END 


End file.
